


Things We Don't Do for Love

by Muir_Wolf



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-19
Updated: 2010-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 06:52:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muir_Wolf/pseuds/Muir_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt was: "<i>We're separate, two ghosts in one mirror.</i> Finnick tries to help Annie in the aftermath of her Hunger Games victory, but he knows that no one ever escapes the Games."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things We Don't Do for Love

They love him, every one of them—man or woman, sinner or saint, wealthy or poor. He can ask for what he wants, and there is someone out there who is eager and willing to bleed themselves out for the privilege of his lips, the pleasure of his body. They love him, and they’ll pay him to love them, pay him in money and secrets and anything he asks.

It’s a rush, at first, addictive and vindictive, that he can turn these people on themselves. What they won’t do, what they won’t say, who they won’t betray for his touch.

It’s easy to be hard, harder to remember ever being kind. Virtue is a weakness, kindness something to be exposed and used.

Five years after he won the Games, three years after he gave himself over to the Capitol and watched them stumble over themselves to give themselves over to him, he meets a girl.

Of course, he’s met a lot of girls (and women, and men), but this girl depends on him to help her live. He’s been a mentor (with help) for four years, now, and each year he’s watched a boy and girl stumble and fall, each year he’s watched someone die and been unable to save them.

Annie, with her dark eyes and brown hair and steady mouth—he doesn’t want to watch her die. He watches the way she rolls her bottom lip between her teeth when she’s nervous (and of course she’s nervous, terrified), the way she runs her hand through her hair, and he doesn’t want to see her lying still, bleeding out and—

The boy is brash, but Annie, Annie is—

Finnick teaches her what he can (teaches them what he can), but he can do no more, can care no more, can risk no more.

(His hand doesn’t shake when he sees her enter the arena, he didn’t hug her goodbye as if he might see her again, he doesn’t hope, no, he can never hope.)

Annie hopes.

Annie is brave, and good, and strong, until the boy falls, his head stuttering to a stop feet from his body, and Annie screams, and runs, and Finnick can do no more.

Finnick can do nothing at all.

He fucks someone hard that night, and let’s them pay him in secrets. _Fingers on his skin, as if he can be controlled, hands on his hips as if he can be stopped._

What would he pay, when others so easily give anything he could ever want?

(He knows what he wants, he knows the cost of it.)

The earthquake that breaks the dam is unexpected. (Some would say impossible.)

Finnick watches her hair disappear underneath the waves of water, but he knows his district, he knows his tribute, he knows that swimming is instinct, even when you’re dying inside (especially when you’re dying inside).

When he’s finally allowed by her side, she’s dry but still shaking, hysterical and incomprehensible, and so very young.

(Finnick is nineteen, but he has never felt so old, has never felt so young.)

They rush the celebrations; their victor, poor thing, quite mad. Instead they drag Finnick on stage, pepper him with questions— _he must be so proud, leading his young tribute to victory. He must be so happy, to have a hand in her success._

They’ve always loved him, haven’t they?

Her skin crawls, and her voice is hoarse, and she can never be free of her past, never be free of her mind, and they push her aside, push her away, clamor for Finnick, their champion. They chose him after all, gifted him with everything he could have wanted.

(He knows what he wanted, and now, holding her shaking form, he knows the cost.)

When they go home, she in her house, he in his house, separate by wall and mortar and madness, he sneaks into her house late at night, holds her through the hours, tries to keep the nightmares at bay. He tells her that she’s safe, even though she isn’t, lies through his teeth as if it will bring her back to herself, lies to himself that such a thing is possible.

(He can feel the Games sketched along his skin, memory and pain and hate, he knows the cost of his life.)

He tries, and tries, and tries, and then, after all that, remembers.

Remembers the cost of memory, and remembers how hard it is to be kind instead of hard. But maybe she’s had enough of hardness and strength. Maybe she needs kindness, and maybe it would be kinder to let her forget.

For one year, he stayed by her, each night whispering memories of herself into her ears, each day by her side, each step of the Victory Tour (and they swooned at his approach, cameras turning from her to him), but finally, finally, he is content in what she has forgotten, his poor mad Annie.

(He promises himself he will remember for the both of them.)

There is a cost for their love, for his life, and he wears it like a trophy, wears his victory like it pleases him, and they throw themselves at him without thought or care.

It is easier to be cruel, he thinks, as they toss him roses, as they blow him kisses.

He remembers her hand in his, her body crushed against his in a hug that he dared to hope would not be goodbye, but he leaves her whatever peace he can.

It is harder to be kind, but there is nothing without cost, not even his Annie, and he has seen the price and paid in full.

 

  
_Finis_   



End file.
